The UnReality of Reality
by PockymonX3
Summary: Reality isn't really real. Really? Well, don't tell people that. It might end you up in the same situation I'm in. An AU fic told from the POV of the Cheshire Cat.
1. This Man

**The Un-Reality of Reality**

**~Pockymonx3**

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**Chapter One- This Man**

**A.N: Hello there, chibi-dears and others. So, I've decided to put all other writing projects on hold as this newest idea has taken over my mind. This is a story about what would happen if the Cheshire Cat (made human for sake of this story) were to be sent to a psychiatric ward due to his, for lack of a better word, insanity. Now, sprinkled into this ward will be the Mad Hatter and the March Hare (also made human for the story), and whomever else I see fit to throw in. And as I stated in the summary, this is told from the point of view of the Cheshire Cat.**

**I ask that you please review, and hope you enjoy the story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters used in this story or Alice in Wonderland in any way, shape, or form. If there is already a story out there like this, I would not know and did not intend to copy the idea from said story.**

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Nothing ever before in my life has been so surreal to me as people trying to convince me that something called the "real" does, in fact, exist. They have been trying to for years and failing for as long. There has been some flaw in either their mind or mine—and I'm assuming mine seeing as the general majority say that the "real" exists—that causes for these conflicts to begin. I can't remember exactly how long I've felt this way, it's just been there as far back as I remember. Then again, if you knew my memory then that wouldn't seem as impressive. The fact of the matter is this: I don't believe anything is real and everyone else does. One million to one and years of fighting has finally placed me in the one place that those who believe in the "real" see fit for apparent "lunatics" such as myself.

The man across from me looks just about as thrilled to be in this situation as I am. His hair is a pale, washed-out brown to match the color of his eyes and is parted to cover up his growing bald spot. His hair, not his eyes, I mean. Not clarifying is what got me here in the first place. Or, I think it might have been. I don't even know anymore. But I have no time to ponder this because he fixes me with those brown eyes of his with impatience. It's not the first time that I've zoned out while talking to this man.

"Mm?" is the only thing I can say in response before my mind is repossessed by other thoughts apparently far greater in importance to what this man is saying. About how I've never really found out the answer to the riddle why a raven is like a writing desk, or how I can't remember the last time I counted using my fingers and toes, yet I hear about people doing this often. The thoughts are all consuming and I know that this man will only get more irritated as I continue to space out. It's not like I intended to be distracted by these random words and phrases and ideas popping into existence in my already-cluttered mind.

"Chessur," his tone is stern and now I know that I've just tripped some wire I should not have. Not once has this man used my name, though I am still convinced it is because he fears if he does he'll shatter whatever mental stability I am projecting to the outside world. I am not a house of cards, I would like to tell him though he doesn't seem that bright and I fear I may do nothing but confuse the poor man further. So the thought remains locked up like all the others, a dam ready to burst. Another thought: Will I say, "damn" when the dam bursts? Will it be out loud and cause this man to ask why I've sworn? Will he be offended? What was his name again? Is it just "This Man"? I think that this figment of my mind will appreciate it if I remember his name, but I just can't seem to bring myself to. So "This Man" he shall become forevermore until I remember what his real name is. Or maybe even if I remember, he will still be This Man to me. It's an identity, is it not?

"Chessur," more persistent now, a hand a feather-light existence atop my own. He should have known, This Man. He is part of my mind and so he should have known, touching is not permitted.

I bear my teeth and spring at him, snarling like beast the whole way as I take him down. Incisors meet flesh and _riprip tear_, This Man is now No-More This Man. Or, that is how it goes inside my mind. Outside my mind I simply shrink away from the touch and duck my head, attempting to show through action what words will allow me to say. _Sorry, This Man, I cannot be touched. It is not allowed._ The words are forbidden to speak; because once they leave my mind they will enter what people believe is the "real". And then it will no longer belong to me. Snatched up by invisible fingers recording every word I speak, every movement I make…

"I'm sorry," I manage to say before the tide of thoughts pull me under once more. It's a tide now, is it? Does that mean the dam has burst? And I didn't even say, "damn". Damn. No, focus, I scold. Pushing the thoughts away is harder than one could imagine, a feat of Olympic proportions but I'm able to do it for a few moments to tack on another half-sentence as the thoughts wait for when I let my guard down in a few moments. "You said…?"

He leans back in his seat to examine how I am perched in mine. Sitting at the edge of it, back curled into a near-perfect 'C' shape- like the first letter in my name, and gnawed-upon fingertips digging into the bolted-down cool metal I was forced to be seated on. I feel that I am trembling, know that it is visible to him. Can I tell This Man that it is because I can't control my own mind, that I am physically aching from the effort it takes to hold back the thoughts I have? No, I can't, I answer my own question. It would only emphasize why I am to be here in the first place.

"It says here you were planning on killing yourself?" he asks, only clarifying the fact that I was unable to clarify when with shaking hands I held the phone to my ear and only barely managed to choke out the thought from the last hour- _Sixteen hundred_, my brain interjects, in military time for some strange reason or another. With an exasperated sigh I imagine walls of pure steel blocking out more thoughts from slipping into my mind so that I can answer what This Man has said, to correct the error he has made.

"Look, This Man," I say and earn a confused, if not angry look from him as I use his given name. Oh no, I seem to have gotten it wrong. The small smile I allow to play across my lips is purely for myself and I feel as though a secret battle has been won. If he didn't believe what I said was real, like I do, he could have erased it from his mind. But instead, as he lives in the "real", he now has to live in shame that he is so wholly unremarkable that even I cannot remember his name. Waving away the thoughts and packing them semi-neatly behind my steel blockade with the others, I start again.

"Look… you,"-not much of an improvement-"I was _not_ planning on killing myself. I had what I've been told is an 'irrational' thought, which resulted in the altering of my mental state from one of stability to one of panic. I had begun to believe that my death was imminent and inevitable and whatever other in- words you feel fit to place in succession to those two. In a state of perfect clarity and clear self-preservation instinct, I called the phone number that had been given to me by That Man or, as you who believe he is a real, just, and good man call him, Phillip, and told him the 'irrational' thought. I had no intention of harming myself in any way when I called him and still do not. As you can clearly tell by now, this was just a mistake. May I go now?"

The words do not matter to me and so I feel all right that I am wasting them on such a man as This Man. Though they apparently they matter quite a lot to This Man, as he sits and ponders for what I assume must be three hours, because it sure does feel like it. I am waiting very patiently, being a good little boy, until This Man decides and carries out the verdict. _Not guilty_. His lips part as he begins to say the words I've predetermined for this facet of my imagination and I prepare myself to rise from my seat and tell him it is alright, I forgive his lapse in judgment, and allow him to leave my mind as swiftly as he had entered it.

"Still, the fact that you had this thought concerns me. We're going to keep you here for a little bit to make sure you are feeling alright," he says and I feel my blood run cold. It is only in very, very rare cases do my imaginings disobey something I have told them to do. When it does occur, catastrophic events will be sure to follow. As I decide that remaining in this place will become if I am to be here for more than a few hours.

The sign that had resided outside this building announced it to be a "Adolescent Psychiatric Care Facility" or something to that accord. I had become offended at the injustice of being labeled as an adolescent, as clearly I was older than my birth certificate—flimsy piece of nonexistent paper it was—stated. Now that I was to be staying here for an indeterminable amount of time—"it all depends on how you're _feeling_", was This Man's way of telling me—the injustice had been driven home as I was escorted to what was to be my room.

The walls were the palest blue that I had even perceived before, a single, square window at eye level greeted me from opposite the door, and there was a bed that I assumed to be bolted to the ground pressed snugly into a corner. There hadn't been anything I had brought with me, as I assumed I would not have been making an extended visit to this place. So I stood in front of the window, staring out at the cheerful bright sky that awaited me once I convinced This Man that there was nothing wrong with me. Now that I was away, I dropped the steel wall to allow the thoughts to give me some company. The wall melted away and with cautious steps they crept before warm arms wrapped around me, a scolding voice in my ear telling me I should not have kept them waiting so long. But I know they are not really mad at me, for if I were to cast them out, where would they go? They have made a home in my mind and I have stepped back to allow them space. They whispered at first, when I was young. And now they gather in hordes, never ceasing their noise even as I lay my head down to rest.

It is the thoughts that prevent the medication handed to me to calm me down—"you're shaking, you need to calm yourself," I was informed by That Nurse—from working. They burned away the sedation before it could lull me into a thoughtless slumber, one more nonexistent thing among another that I could not even remember. To feign the calm that had been made apparent in the short duration of my stay was the key to curing my "illness", I lay in the bed and closed my eyes. One thought, a small child of a query, wanted to know what the ceiling was like. It kept asking, asking, asking me just for one little peek and as I denied it this self-assumed right it's soft voice grew into a dying shriek until it was taken over by even more ideas. The request to see the ceiling was soon forgotten amidst all the others.

It was only when the sun had gone down and I saw the picturesque mural of stars in the sky just outside my reach did the thoughts cease. It was for only the slightest split of a moment, yet in that silence the thoughts had bowed down, given way to a noise not inside my mind. Outside the inside of my mind. In the "real".

It was a laugh. The quietest chuckle, really, that I first I had thought it was just in my mind. But I could tell, especially when it sounded again and caused the thoughts to hold in their endless demands, riddles, questions, and laments, that it was real. Not real… in the "real", in what others, the other figments that snuck out of my mind and into this blank canvas, painted it with their own "independent" ideas. The laugh was one of those ideas and I began to wonder which thought it had started from. I'd never, in my meager memory, known one of the thoughts, one of the figments, to laugh. Yet it was there and it was almost as if the thoughts were afraid of it, this figment. The reprieve from the flow of thoughts was strangely welcome, as if the laugh was what was needed to fill the void to allow for a moment of peace.

Once it was gone, though, they returned one hundred fold. It began as multiple chains of laughter, each one attempting to mimic what I had heard in the "real" and not remotely coming close. Once it faded, though, it became clear. They were angry this time, though not truly angry. Angry at the fact that I had stopped them twice in one day. I made my apologies and allowed them free roam of my mind, of my environment. After a time, though, I began to weary and asked for a moment to escape the confines of the "real". With a joint sigh that echoed and swirled around my mind for what seemed like ages, they acquiesced.

I closed my eyes and willed myself to disappear.

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**Well, please tell me what you thought.**

**And for those of you who have read some of my work before, I realize that this style is different from what I wrote the other fics with. It just seemed to fit with the way I wanted this to be expressed and I think it worked out well. Tell me which one you prefer, though. But I doubt I'll change it for this one. Maybe another.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chair Room

**A.N: So then, here's chapter two. Thanks to you who have reviewed.**

**Don't really have any random tangents to go off of now so... here it is ^^.**

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When I return it is day, though clouds have rolled in and marred what had yesterday been a promising scene. The thoughts are at rest, which brings me to wonder what has caused me to return when it has not been approved by me. Then I see That Nurse in my doorway, telling me that I must come with her. The sarcastic reply that had been dangling on the tip of my tongue dies as the first of the thoughts raises its head from its peaceful slumber. It catches that I've returned and starts up the call that awakens all the others. So with a mute nod I allow That Nurse to bring me into what I will call the Chair Room. In this room, when I enter it, is a large circle composed entirely of chairs, if it could not be guessed by its name. The majority of them have been taken, one of the two seemingly empty ones occupied by a clipboard upon closer inspection.

And so my seat by some unforeseen hand of fate is to be one between two boys. One has dark hair that was clearly tangled in his sleep, though he has made no attempt to fix it and I wonder if that is the style he goes for and if so, he is passing with flying colors. Since when did colors fly? Is that expression about a rainbow? If so, rainbows don't fly and so that statement is false…

My musings are halted by a cleared thought and I realize I am the only one standing. A large woman has taken up the seat with the clipboard with soft curls for hair and she is looking at me with the same expression This Man looked at me yesterday. Impatience. Taking that as my cue, I sit between the two unknown figments and assume the same position as before, curled in on myself with my nails gripping onto the edge of the seat for dear life. As I am new there, Large Curls, as I have thus named the woman, sees it fit for us to go around and say our names out loud, as well as why we are here. After a moment of silence, Large Curls nods to a slight girl besides her and the introductions begin.

When it gets to Messy Hair besides me it is clear by his tone of voice he still is not accustomed to life inside this place. His voice is quick but halts often and he has a habit of tripping over his words. "M-March is the—" and here he halts as some unseen object in the air catches his attention, "name. I'm bere hecause er—here be-because…" and he trails off and shakes his head, apparently unable to continue. With that out of the way, Large Curls turns her eyes to me and I sigh.

"I'm Chessur, and I am here because I don't believe anything is real. And because apparently just because a thought in my head wants to commit suicide, the figment of That Man thinks I should be here," I said, sounding positively overjoyed about the fact that I am here. Large Curls pauses and her lower lip puckers into what must have been an adorable pout in her younger years, yet only now I see the scowl of a woman who has been presented with an unknown problem. I am that unknown problem.

"I'm sorry, Chessur, none of us here have that particular mindset. If you wouldn't mind explaining…" she trails off and leaves the silence that follows open for me to feel.

I see my chance to explain and possibly leave this place and so I launch into the simplest version I can muster. "You see, you believe you are in the "real", correct? That everything is tangible and exists?" she nods at this and I continue onwards, "Well, for me, I don't. I live in the "un-reality" that all of this is in my head and I don't even know if I'm real or not. With "un-reality", come two main things. There is the thoughts and the figments," I hold up two fingers as I am under the impression that using visuals will help this certain figment understand. After a moment I gesture around to our little collective circle. "You all are figments. You come from my mind to color the area around me. You are like the thoughts, but stronger. You can survive outside of my mind and there's only very few of you. And you're constantly changing, which is why it always seems like I change locations. But going further into that may confuse you. Then there are the thoughts. There are infinitely more thoughts than figments and they create an endless roaring noise inside me."

I pause as the thoughts rise up as if to attest to this, though I know by experience that the figments, once outside, are cut off from the thoughts. I open my mouth to say as much but it seems I have overloaded Large Curls mind and she has moved on to the boy besides me, the one I hadn't had the chance to look at before. I do so know, feeling as though the face is oddly familiar. His hair is messy like March Hair's- the name I have given the hyperactive, distractible boy on my other side- but a bright ginger color unlike the other one's. His eyes are a nice green with only the hint of a gold-brown around the edge. His posture is relaxed as he leans against the back of his chair, giving a shrug.

"They call me Hatter. And I'm here because I'm mad as one," he made a small noise then that froze me up and startled me into silence for the rest of the time I was in the Chair Room.

Though I would have adored bringing myself back into the light and further explaining myself, I knew my time had passed. I had been derailed and now Large Curls was finishing up the introductions. She continued on in surprising persistence, explaining to everyone the procedure of how things were to go for the rest of our days here, though by the look of many of those here they had been here long enough where they knew. She was doing this especially for me and my stomach twisted when I realized all that she had planned for us and, by default, me. When the thoughts were especially bad, I wouldn't have been able to accomplish all of that in three weeks, so distracted would I become. It was getting to that point and I feared what it would mean for how much time I had left in this environment.

Oh, and what was the noise Hatter had made?

He had chuckled in such a way that the thoughts had stopped.

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**And thus ends the second chapter! Yay! I hope you all are enjoying the story so far.**

**Please review!**


	3. Light's Out

**A.N: I just thought this would be a fun fact to share with you all: up until "the door isn't locked" in this chapter was written entirely on my cell phone. That's what I get for having inspiration to write on a bus ^^;**

**I'm really sorry that this chapter took so damn long to put up. I've been having writer's block for the next chapter and didn't want this one released until I finished that one. But oh well... Here you go~!**

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It is, I am assuming, five minutes after what my intelligent mind has deemed "Lights Out". So named because not too long ago—_five minutes,_ my mind persists—I heard Large Curls in my doorway explaining that they were going to turn all the lights out now, so that the other patients—she said this word with a curious half-sneer—could get some rest. Also, according to her, I was doing an exemplary job at sleep, or, as only I knew the truth, faking it. Imitating someone from a flicker of a memory, I gave an incoherent mumble and a slight nod as my response. Satisfied with that, seemingly, she leaves and I hear the click of the door behind her.

And so it has brought me back to the present, where through the noise of the thoughts circling around in my head, I am listening. Not hearing anything of great importance, mind you, but listening nonetheless. The slow, soft footsteps I have come to identify as those of That Nurse can be heard outside my door every so often and I know that she is checking up on me, feel her eyes scorching into me, to make sure I have not gone anywhere. Go where, I wonder? My mind is becoming fuzzy from the drugs they have given me. This dose appears to be stronger than the last one and I suspect they noticed I could not sleep last night. If That Nurse was making rounds like this before during Lights Out, then surely they must know. Yet none of this holds any significant purpose to myself and I cast it off into the vast, expanding sea of thoughts that has been growing rather quick as of late.

It is not the footsteps or the near-quiet murmur of voices that interests me now, though. What my ears are straining to hear is something entirely unlike the other noises.

Hatter's Chuckle.

It has been possessing a special part of my mind that seemed to have been carved out specifically for his Chuckle and, try as I might, it refuses to leave. It has become quite comfortable in it's new home and sees it as an acceptable gesture of gratitude to sound off at odd intervals, throwing me off focus of whatever it was I had been thinking about prior. I have not heard it in the "real" yet tonight and am waiting with anxious hands getting their fingers nibbled on by my teeth. Has he left? Or was he just another figment that vanished surely as it has come and nobody recalls their name? Their existence? My heart quivers, stops, then starts up at the pace of a frightened rabbit and I am given the absurd image in my mind of such a rabbit scampering about before leaping down a rabbit hole. _Is he going to safety?_ I ask the image in my mind.

I receive no answer.

That is when I hear the first slow, close to inaudible tap against my door. My body goes rigid, eyes wide as they slide their gaze sideways, though my bed is at a poor vantage point to see the door. And so, wary, I sit up. The thoughts have ceased for this moment and the silence is pressing, sinking down into my marrow and holding fast, bringing a chill with its rare appearance. There is a soft hissing noise, the kind used to gather your focus when everything is meant to be silent. _Pssst._ It is then I know whomever is outside my door is not meant to be there. And then I hear the voice.

"Hey, Chessur! Let me in," it's follow by the chuckle that I had been straining to hear in the first place and it settles my nerves. Hatter.

"Come in!" was my equally quiet reply and I hoped he could hear me. "The door isn't locked."

Lights from the hall spill in as the door opens and I see a shadowy figure slip inside. He rests against the door once it closes again and I can only assume that it is so when That Nurse makes her rounds once more and looks inside with beady eyes she will not realize my room now holds two occupants. His grin when he looks at me is wide and lighted by the faint glow of the moon as it looks out from behind the clouds. His calm demeanor is gone and I feel that, like me, he is holding back his true nature from those who are watching us. Now Hatter is jittery, fingers tapping against every stable, solid substance within reach. His eyes seem a touch too wide as he looks at me, entirely too focused for my liking. He is a figment unlike any of the others I have witnessed. Where in my mind did this one come from? The dark, roiling corners that I dare not explore even under the most pressing surface? He is unfamiliar to the rest of the mind, the thoughts giving uneasy murmurs at his presence and some even venture away with promises to return once this strange figment has left me. It is due to this wariness that I welcome him with a smile to return his manic one, anything to give me a moments reprieve from the constant buzz and roar of the thoughts is fine in my environment.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, curling my knees to my chest in poor defense should this figment prove dangerous. I wonder why he is here now when he had every opportunity to speak with me earlier on in the day. Will they find me in the morning with bruises around my neck that fit to the perfect outline of his slender hands? My eyes look down to the possible weapon and watch them tap, tap, tap against his shins, down to his feet, and back again in a pattern that sends his fingers into a blurring frenzy. How fast would it take for those fingers to halt the air going into my lungs? Five minutes? Ten? Would I have time to run away or scream for help? I cannot tell and that is what speeds my breath into a dangerous area. It takes me a moment to refocus as his lips shape to form the noise he speaks into words.

"What you believe in is fascinating," he responds with a nonchalant raise and drop of his shoulders. "I was just curious about_ why_ you believe that."

He is not the first one to wonder this and I am forced to recall once more why it is I think how I do. The thoughts resist my dredging up of memories of the past. Remembrance is unneeded and not allowed. The pull to give up and simply answer with mimicry of his shrug from before. However, I do wish to tell Hatter the truth, to have one person actually comprehend the reasoning behind my alleged madness. With a heavy sigh I meet his eyes and just let the words go.

"Well you see, I myself am not so sure why I don't think any of this is real. And remembering anything long enough to make sense of it is something that is far, far too difficult for me to manage. I'm trying now, and stalling as well, because the thoughts in my head are roaring because none of them really like the memories. When I was little, though, I think I believed in reality. I can't be exactly positive, though. My memory isn't that good.

"You see, when I was little I was witness to a series of horrible things that my young mind simply was unable to comprehend. When I dismissed them as being just a part of my imagination, I suppose is when I began this downward, or upward, really, depending on your perception on if it's good or not, spiral into my current state of unreality. The idea grew in my head that I should be able to think that anything bad was just a part of my imaginings, such an impressionable young child I was. As I grew older I began to find more and more bad things that were part of my mind, part of the distant cousin to reality that I was beginning to reside in.

"When I realized that, if so many things were wrong in the world, and they were all a part of my mind, then wouldn't that make me a bad thing as well? And so I excluded myself from reality. Everything is just a circle of things imagined up by other things, originating from my mind and manifesting in the environment around me. My logic is flawed in your eyes, I understand this. But to me, it couldn't make any more sense."

His smile changes then, a fire dulling to an ember as it reaches the end of its life. It is a soft smile and I wonder if my story has brought him any sympathy. I hope not, for sympathy is not something I welcome in my mind. But there is a spark of determination in his eyes that gives me a sinking feeling before he speaks again.

"I'll convince you that this is real," he promises, then raises himself from the ground and is gone. And all before I am able to register what he says.

When I do, I feel the fire that left his smile begin in me, though now it is a burning anger at him. How dare he think that he would be able to take me out of my mind? Arrogant figment. My teeth worry my bottom lip until the metal that is my blood wells up and slips over my tongue. I will disregard his promise and then it will cease to exist. This is my mind, whether he knows it or not, and I plan on exercising whatever control I have over it.

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**Well then, please tell me what you think of it so far!**


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